Not Missouri air.
The day passes with metal clangs, grinds, and bursts of machinery. From what I’ve gathered, all the boxcars from the train are being stacked at this location. One is even stacked atop our own.
Another one is lowered beside us, its light blue metal blocking the light that had streamed into our window. There’s still a gap between our boxcars, but their window faces ours.
“Where are they taking us?” Dusten’s voice is a croak from my left. “Where’s Parvin? Did they do this to her when they sent her across the Wall?”
“I’m here, Dusten.” My voice is loud to my ears and the silence is heavy with expectation. What do I tell them? Can I admit I don’t know what’s going to happen?
I am supposed to be their leader.
“Well?” The milkman. Demanding.
I have to be honest, like Mother said, but before I can speak a man’s loud voice comes from outside of our boxcar. “These two are Unity Village.”
Something blunt pounds the outside of our door and another man with a low almost monstrous voice speaks. “Is Parvin Blackwater in there?”
I gasp and Mother clutches me to her. What do they want with me?
No one says anything. Slam. Monster Voice hits the metal again. “Hey!”
“Yeah, she’s here.”
Thanks, Milkman.
“You can have her if you let us out for some air and give us food.”
The milkman’s offer gets the rest of my people alert.
“Yes,” someone else chimes in. “Food and air!”
“My tummy hurts, Mommy.”
“Open the door!”
“Can you please let us out, just for a moment?”
Do they want him to kill me?
Slam. “Everyone quiet! We’ll open the door long enough to let Parvin Blackwater out. You’ll get food later today.”
“He’s lying.”
I ignore the milkman’s snarl and stand, but Mother grabs the edge of my coat.
“Parvin, no.”
“He’ll come for me anyway. I’ll be fine, Mother.” I hope.
It’s impossible to cross the car without stepping on body parts. I trip twice before I reach the door and knock. “I’m here.”
“We’ve got Enforcers if anyone else tries to come out,” Monster Voice says.
I don’t guarantee that no one will try. The milkman doesn’t seem like the complying sort.
The door creaks open. Even without a breeze, the light alone brings in a fresh breath. My vision blackens, as if it can’t handle the illumination. I take several squinty blinks before stepping down.
My knees buckle and one of the Enforcers steadies me.
“Holy zeroes.” Monster Voice peers into the boxcar. I connect my gaze with his face. It’s a smashed visage with small sunken eyes and an overbite. “Did you all get in a fight?”
“Enforcers did this.” My voice exits my chest with venom. “They beat up these people and threw them in the boxcar. Some of us even have Clocks.”
He stares for a long moment, then shuts the door.
“Hey!” I can barely hear the milkman’s voice.
I’m led through stacks and stacks of boxcars—four or five cars high in some places. Are these all filled with people?
When I exit our row, it gets worse. I’m on a giant cargo ship.
Our row is just the first of fifteen. That’s a lot of Radicals loaded like cattle. “Why are we on a ship?”
We walk to the back, across a deck made up of solar panels. My joints pop and tremble, but it’s nice to stretch out. The ship is at a huge loading dock. The dock is covered in even more boxcars of all colors. Thousands.
I suck in a breath. “Are there people in all of those?”
“No, no.” Monster Voice stops at the railing near the walkway to the dock. “The next shipment will come in a couple weeks. The shipping containers on the dock will go back on the trains to collect more Radicals.”
My head swims and I grip the railing. I need food. “Where are you taking us? Why are we on a ship?”
“Well, you don’t have to go anywhere. The Council is releasing you.” He smiles, which shoves his eyes even further into the hollows of his eyes. “Aren’t you lucky?”
Men on the dock unwind giant ropes from cleats and deck hands haul them up. The Council would let me leave? “Why?”
Monster Voice shrugs and gestures to two Enforcers next to the walkway. “All you gotta do is say yes and they’ll take you where the Council wants.”
Where the Council wants. He means they’ll take me to the Council . . . to join them in their Clock propaganda. Controllable.
I swing my arm toward the boxcars on board. “I’m not leaving these people. Where are you taking them?”
“Get off while you can.”
I stomp my foot, which is a bad idea because it reminds me that every muscle is a lump of jelly. “Not unless you release every Radical, too.”
But part of me wants to flee. No one in the boxcar—or shipping container, as he called it—would know what happened to me. They might think the Enforcers killed me. I shake my head.
I can’t leave Mother.
I can’t leave any of them.
“The Council said they’ll leave your village alone if you get off. They’ll make sure your family has plenty of food and specie for the rest of your life. You can’t say no to that.”
He’s wrong. I can say no . . . but it’s not easy. “The people of Unity Village are my family. And they’re in boxcars. The Council will have to release all of them, too.” I can’t abandon everyone. That would be turning my back on my desire to save lives, to bring shalom. “Now, where are you taking us?”
“Opening Four.”
The blunt, cold way he delivers this information hits me like a jackhammer. I fall to my knees and no one helps me up this time. My speech comes out in a gasping whisper. “But that’s . . . that’s in Antarctica!”
“The ship’s leaving. This is your last chance.”
Antarctica. Antarctica. Antarctica.
We can’t go there! There’s no rescue from ice. People don’t live there for a reason. We won’t escape. We will never escape.
The last two ropes are thrown off the dock cleats. With a shuddering crank of noise, the cargo ship pulls away from the dock. I stay on my knees, watching the dock slide past, inch by inch. We’re going slow, but far too fast for my despairing thoughts.
We’re all going to die.
Antarctica, God? I thought You made my calling clear—to lead everyone to the West. Now they’re following me to death.
We pass the end of the dock and head to open water.
“Lost your chance.” Monster Voice hauls me up, but a shout from the dock scorches my nerves.
“Parvin!”
I snap my head around, scanning the pier.
“Parvin!” It’d be hard to miss the figure sprinting down the pier, past piled shipping containers and shoving workers aside. He’s tall and still wears a black Enforcer coat, despite the scar on his face.
Solomon.
18
Solomon Hawke runs down the line of the dock toward us, but we’ve already left the slip. A gap of water separates us.
I break free of Monster Voice and sprint toward the stern, already gasping from memories of running to the back of the Ivanhoe Independent as it left Willow behind.
Not again.
Not again.
I can’t bear to watch someone dear to me shrink out of my sight.
“Solomon!” I reach the end and maybe some of the deck hands think I’m going to jump overboard because they grab me—my coat, my hair, my arms. “Solomon!”
He’s alive.
The water gap between the boat and the dock grows. His running f
orm is already growing smaller. In a moment, he’ll skid to a halt and realize he’s too late.
But he reaches the end of the pier . . .
… and launches off the edge. He curves his body so he enters the water headfirst with his hands forward to break the impact. Everything about the action is perfect.
He’s coming after me. Me. Even though he knows—he must know—this ship is carrying me to death.
Solomon breaks the surface, swimming with ferocious might, but the ship is too fast.
“Turn back! Don’t come! You’ll only die!” Maybe he doesn’t hear me. Or maybe he doesn’t care. I want him to come, but I don’t want him to. What is he doing here? He’s supposed to be saving Willow.
“Throw him a rope if we have one long enough,” Monster Voice says from behind me. “If he wants a taste of Antarctica, so be it.”
A deck hand picks up a coil. “I don’t think we have one long enough, sir.”
“No!” I spin around so we’re face-to-face. “Don’t bring him aboard.”
Monster Voice points at an Enforcer. “You, put this girl back in the Unity Village container.”
Before I can see if they throw a rope to Solomon, an Enforcer hauls me away from the stern of the ship. I struggle, but my puny form is no match. He opens the shipping container door, throws me inside, and bolts it behind me.
I burst into tears. Lying atop other bodies back in the stench, all I can bring myself to do is cry. Is it hope or despair?
I don’t know.
But Solomon came after me.
Curse him, he came! Does he know that, if they pull him aboard, he’s bound for Antarctica?
I sigh. He came.
He’s alive.
“What did you find out?” The milkman glares at me.
“Did zey ’urt you?” It’s the first time Frenchie has spoken. What was her real name again? Angelique? She was so excited to get her Clock. Now she’s here. My heart aches.
I shake my head, even though it’s too dark for them to see me. A battalion of sobs marches up my chest to my throat, needing an escape, but I force a deep breath. My people are turning to me for an answer, for some sort of leadership. Just like Mother said.
She said be honest.
I don’t know how to be a leader, but I owe it to them to reveal where we’re headed.
“Well?”
I sit up, wipe the tears from my eyes, and hug my stump to my chest. How do I say this? “I don’t have good news.”
“Get on with it!” The milkman seriously needs a lesson in tact.
I let several seconds of breath holding pass. “We’re on a cargo ship en route to Opening Four.”
I can almost hear the dread sink in.
“Antarctica?” Dusten shrieks. Those who hadn’t connected it already, gasp at the word.
“Yes. They fooled us.”
“No, you fooled us!” the milkman shouts. “You convinced us we could survive on the other side. You convinced us to trust you!”
If he finds comfort in blaming me, so be it. “I’m sorry you feel you were given false confidence. I still plan to help you survive.”
“Oh you do, do you? Are you an expert in igloo-building?”
Several sniffs join the discussion.
“What did they want with you anyway?”
I don’t want to tell them. It would sound too . . . martyr-like to say, “They offered me freedom and I didn’t take it.” But part of me wants everyone to know this—to know that I sacrificed my freedom and possibly my very life to accompany them to the Antarctic wasteland.
“Wait, wait,” Dusten says. “Why are we all freaking out? We still remember our Numbers don’t we? I have over nine months left. The Numbers are never wrong . . . right?”
Six months ago, I would’ve agreed, but Jude’s death shook my beliefs. As did my own survival. But this wire cord around my wrist . . . it says thirty-one years. Should I believe it?
A dull blue glow stands out in the darkness across the boxcar, next to my mother. Dusten holds his wrist aloft and his projected Numbers blink red against in the blue-highlighted gloom.
000.275.03.12.01
Dusten R. Grunt
“See? Does anyone else remember their Numbers?”
Looks like he ended up stealing enough specie after all. Not that it did him much good.
“We are all Radicals now,” Frenchie says. “But I remember my Numbers before zey were destroyed in ze fire. I ’ave thirteen years.”
“You see?” His optimism—something I’ve never witnessed in this school bully—reinstates a modicum of calm. “That means you’ll survive all this and probably escape Antarctica.” Even as he says it, a choked sadness coats his voice. I know what he’s thinking. He’ll never escape. Not with nine months left.
The milkman snorts from by the door. “Or it could mean she’ll learn how to scrape by in a winter wasteland for thirteen miserable years.”
“Hush up.” Mother directs a hard look at him from beside Dusten. While I have light from Dusten’s illuminated Numbers, I scoot my way over the bodies, back toward her. I’ve done my duty. I informed everyone of our doom. Now, while they panic and worry . . .
I must plan.
I thought riding the train for an unknown amount of time was bad, but the cargo ship is far worse. Worse than wolves, worse than Wilbur Sherrod’s nightmare simulations, worse even than having my hand chopped from my body.
Day one, they throw in a bag of potatoes and hand us two buckets of water.
“Did you guys pull that Enforcer out of the water?” I call, but the worker slams the boxcar door shut.
“What Enforcer?”
I ignore the milkman and he doesn’t press the matter. I’m guessing he’s more interested in food.
The potato bag makes it around the boxcar, but by the time it reaches my side the burlap bag is empty. The milkman blames some people for being greedy, Dusten blames the Enforcers for being stingy, but I just want a potato. I still avoid taking any food out of my pack. At least I get a sip of water.
Day two, I get a potato. It’s raw and heavy in my hand. The skin is leathery. I try to smell it, but all that reaches my nose is the reeking boxcar air. I’m hungry, but uncooked potato isn’t too tempting.
Still, I must eat.
I bite into the tip. It crunches like an apple, but tastes like dirt. Every chew releases another burst of earth-flavor. I chew against my gag reflex, trying to ignore the crunches. It’s foul. I shouldn’t have chewed. I should have just swallowed a chunk.
A pulse hits my throat. I drop the potato and close my eyes. Don’t be sick. Don’t be sick. I lick my lips—they’re dusty with potato residue. The sea has grown wild and, while the rocking is subtle, I can’t keep my stomach under control without a horizon on which to fix my eyes.
I vomit, probably on to someone’s legs. There’s a shout. Someone else follows suit. I grip my bitten potato and shove it in my bag. Maybe later I’ll be hungry enough to eat it.
I still have no word about Solomon. I hope he had the sense to turn back to the dock, or that the sailors didn’t have a long enough rope. Even though I saw his Numbers, I can’t bring myself to be selfish enough to wish for his company. Willow needs him.
Day three, according to the little bit of light that makes its way through the barred window, some people recover from the seasickness enough to eat a little. Not me. We receive the same amount of potatoes, but the very thought of food sends me scrambling for the waste hole. Not everyone makes it and our shipping container is suffocated with vomit stench.
I try to read my Bible from the light of the window, but the nausea is too much.
Day four, we realize several people in our container are dead. We don’t know how long they’ve been dead. I suppose the other fetor muffled their smells. The milkman stands by
the window almost all day long, clinging to the bars and sucking in clean air. No matter how many people tug on his pant leg or shout at him to sit down so we can get some air, he doesn’t move.
“I wonder what their Numbers were,” someone whispers. “They must have known they were going to die, right?”
The milkman pounds against the metal of the container for a good hour before anyone comes.
“What is it?”
“There are dead people in here. You have to get them out or we’ll all get sick!”
A couple hours pass before Enforcers come and take away some of the bodies. I don’t look, despite some gasps and screams when the light reveals the faces. I don’t want to know who died here.
I stop trying to figure out who took what—who took my freedom, who took my food, who took away my space or my hopes or my encouragement. It doesn’t matter, because it’s gone. Everything is outside of my power . . .
Everything except my thoughts.
Enforcers, distance, not even the Council can take my ability to think. I am human. I am living. I can plan, pray, imagine, dream, hope, and strengthen with only my thoughts.
The darkness impresses upon me a fabricated sensation of loneliness, but I am not alone. These people are in my charge and when we reach Antarctica, they will look to me. Despite the fact that they feel led to their doom.
They will look to me.
The only way to prepare is to compose my mind. I must not let my despair take hold of my intentionality. I start with Scripture. I haven’t read much of it during my short life of frail faith. Only bits and pieces from this last year fasten to my memory.
My relationship with God has been stale and one-sided. During my time in the West I grew in my faith—I discovered a bit more about God and how He desires rightness and completeness in this world. I discovered my calling to save lives, to continue living regardless of tragedy. But recently I’ve plateaued.
I know about God. I know about shalom. I know that I am weak, but can be strong in Him. I know I sinned through selfishness, waste, and pride and He forgave me. But it’s mostly in my head. Shouldn’t my heart be involved somehow? Shouldn’t something in me yearn for Him or connect to His voice?
A Time to Speak Page 20
